


Facades

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it comes to accepted and expected public faces, nearly everybody else is better than Sherlock at the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Facades

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

“Sometimes your brother gives me the creeps.” John announces as he shoulders open the living room door, hands full of shopping bags.  
“You didn't have to accept.” Sherlock doesn't look up from whatever it is that he's doing on his phone.

It's not worth the argument and really, John probably could have carried the shopping home by himself if he'd wanted to make a point. A very stupid point that would have been more inconvenience that it's worth. Just so long as he doesn't think about why Mycroft's car was idling on the kerb outside the supermarket or what their completely spurious conversation had really been about. Mycroft hadn't asked about anything, hadn't alluded to Sherlock in any way and had seemingly been content to talk about the bothersome necessity of shopping and, so John distinctly remembers, the price of beans.

“Why is your brother interested in the price of beans anyway?”  
“Thatcher.”  
“What?”  
Sherlock's phone makes a noise not unlike a laugh. “'Oi' most certainly is a word! What did you say?”  
“Beans. You said Thatcher. Am I meant to say 'Poll Tax' or 'Trade Unions' in reply?”  
Sherlock frowns at his phone and then puts it away. “Thatcher always used to talk about the price of beans to people... housewives. Building rapport.”  
“Right.”

John has actually heard about that. How the Iron Lady used every resource available to her to normalise her image in relation to the public. The price of beans, the styled hair, the jewellery. Which still doesn't explain why Mycroft is doing it.

“That was my brother making small talk.” Sherlock comes to join John in the kitchen, and even starts to put some of the groceries away.  
“Since when does Mycroft make small talk, with anyone?”  
“He use to. What's brinjal- oh.” Sherlock eyes the jar with suspicion.  
“There's a jar of dry balachaung in there too if you want.”  
“Did Mycroft ask you to dinner?”  
“What- no. Why?” John watches Sherlock, who's still clutching the pickle jar as if it might do something dangerous if he were to let go.  
“I'm fairly certain that Tesco don't sell Burmese condiments.” Sherlock's gaze drops to the jar again, as if studying it for evidence.

Sherlock's right of course. Tesco aren't exactly known for stocking Burmese food specificity but John's never done all their shopping at Tesco anyway, and when he has the chance he'll stock up on a few of the rarer items that he enjoys. Quite why Sherlock seems to view the matter with such suspicion, especially since he usually ignores the yellow labelled jars anyway, escapes John. Though it fairly obviously has to do with Mycroft in some way.

Sherlock finally relinquishes the jar to its place in a cupboard. “Tell Mycroft that you want to try the restaurant on Edgeware Road.” He says, back turned to John.  
“Okay...”  
“You'll like it and it'll give him someone to talk to about the ongoing issue of how much chilli ought to be used in cooking.”  
“Mycroft cooks?”  
Sherlock's eyes narrow.  
John swallows, not entirely sure of what he's said wrong. “I mean, he has time to cook?”  
“Not often. That's why he puts on weight. Always eating on the run, never takes time to digest anything.”  
“I thought you said that digestion slows you down.”  
“It does.”

John's not sure what to say in response to that so they carry on putting the groceries away in silence. Sherlock seems pleased with the bag of sweets John's brought back for him, as well as the small tub of Baileys ice-cream. For someone who presents such an austere impression, Sherlock does have a variety of indulgences. He drinks scotch and amaretto when he's relaxed, likes to eat sour sweets when he's just browsing the internet idly and, usually prior to settling down to watch anything, is perfectly capable of eating his way through a far amount of Häagen-Dazs ice-cream. Of course, when he's not on a case, he also tends to make a point of eating regular meals, drinking plenty of water and, in many ways, maintaining a balanced diet. The sweets and ice-cream, John puts down to an infrequently indulged sweet tooth.

“Tea?” John offers companionably once the shopping's been put away.  
“I'll make it.”

Which catches John by surprise. Sherlock is usually quite content to accept any offers of tea or food that John makes, without offering to help with proceedings. Moving over to settle himself on the couch, John watches Sherlock curiously. Sherlock is obviously preoccupied and that most likely has something to do with Mycroft, but John can't quite make the connection between Mycroft's bizarre attempt at small talk, his own preference for pickle and whatever it is that Sherlock keeps looking like he's about to say. When Sherlock brings over a plate of the dry crackers that John likes, his suspicions double.

“Right then. Are you going to tell me what this is about?”  
Sherlock sips his tea.  
“Sherlock.”  
“Something.”  
“Something. That's not much to go on.”  
“Eat your biscuits. I'm... processing.”

John munches though two biscuits before he fixes Sherlock with a pointed stare again.

“Not yet.” Sherlock waves a hand dismissively.  
“Sounds like RAM degradation to me.” John teases.  
“Too much data _actually_.” Nevertheless, Sherlock smiles.

John's use to this by now, though sometimes he does wonder just how literally Sherlock's harddrive comparisons apply. Everyone knows the 'garbage in: garbage out' acronym but Sherlock seems to be one of the few people to which it actually applies. He only bothers to absorb information that he values and rejects the rest vehemently. Perhaps, John supposes, what's taking time then, is re-initiating the connections between whatever points Sherlock is attempting to link coherently, for John's benefit.

“How about now?”  
“File indexing.” Sherlock returns flatly.  
“Can I guess?”  
“No. Be quiet.”

John falls silent again. By the looks of things it might take a while for Sherlock to get his thoughts in order, longer still for him to actually order them in a fashion that he can communicate to John, and that John will understand. In the meantime there's nothing for it but to wait and finish his tea. When his phone buzzes it's a welcome distraction and he's not entirely surprised to find that he has a text from Mycroft inviting him to lunch at that Edgeware Road restaurant tomorrow. Since Sherlock doesn't appear to be reacting, John texts back agreeing to lunch, on the proviso that Mycroft will pick him up in that impressively sinister car of his, right outside the surgery.

“Mycroft-”  
“Good.”  
“Okay...”  
“Irrelevant data.” Sherlock sets down his empty mug and steeples his fingers together.  
“Right.”  
“Trivial but- No. Or at least...”

John is admittedly use to both Sherlock's protracted silences as well as his verbalising his thoughts directly, but it's always the latter that confuses John entirely.

“How's the diet?” Sherlock mutters to himself with a smirk before fixing his eyes on John. “Lies, of course. Both of them.”  
John nods amiably. “Who?”  
“Mycroft and Lestrade.”  
“Right.”  
“Fabricated weakness. Mycroft's is his weight, Lestrade's is his competence. Mycroft's _use_ to be his competence. I imagine that that'll change when Lestrade makes Chief Superintendant.”  
“ _Mycroft_ will change when Lestrade becomes Chief Superintendant?”  
“No. Keep up.”  
“Might help if you were communicating in linear sentences.” John grumbles.  
“Prosaic.”  
“But useful.”

Sherlock stands up abruptly, whisking both mugs away and heading into the kitchen before John really registers the movement. For someone who can be so lethargic at home, occasionally, Sherlock can undertake menial tasks quite quickly. John watches as Sherlock makes more tea.

“Let me see if I have this right-” John begins when Sherlock returns with more tea.  
“Of course you do.” Following that pronouncement, Sherlock settles back into his seat, cradling his mug in his hands.  
“Just for my benefit then. You're telling me that Mycroft used to pretend to be incompetent and that Lestrade does it too.”  
“Correct.”  
“These days Mycroft pretends that he's... concerned about his weight.”  
“Also correct.”  
“But he's not.”

John takes a sip of his tea. There's a point in there, in the info dump of data that Sherlock's foisted onto him, but John's fairly certain that he's completely missing it.

“Why?”  
Sherlock takes a deep breath, for a moment, genuinely looking worried. “Because... it's galling to admit to, but...”  
“But?”  
“John, I have to know, before I say it. Will you think less of me... afterwards?”

Which isn't quite what John's been expecting Sherlock to say. Not least of all because it sounds like it ought to be something said as part of an entirely different conversation.

“No, of course not. Look, Sherlock, when I said that it's all alright, I meant it.”  
“What has that got to do with anything?” Sherlock snaps.  
“I... are we even having the same conversation?”  
“Obviously not. You're evidently expecting me to confess my repressed homosexual feelings for you, proffer a sensitive rebuff and then spend the next month or so trying to make it up to me. During which time you'll reconsider your position and realise that you have feelings for me, feelings that you've been trying to deny based entirely on the notion you developed during your army service, that it would be unwise to engage in sexual relations with a roommate.”  
There's nothing John can say to that.  
“You're also wondering, now, if you were wrong in your assumption and if I'm instead going to confess to a torrid affair with Lestrade, whom you'd initially decided was 'too pretty to be entirely straight' anyway.”  
“About that...”  
“Your third supposition is that I'm going to laugh at you and remind you that I possess no human feelings whatsoever, after which you'll be compelled to move out, rather than share your life with an unfeeling machine.”  
“And the fourth option?”  
“Fourth? You have a forth?”  
“Yes, a fourth option where I finish my tea while you tell me what you were meant to be telling me in the first place.”  
“I can't have been wrong.”  
“Nope, you weren't.”  
“Well... good.”  
“Sure you never had a torrid affair with Lestrade? I would, if I was in your position.” John teases.  
“Not my type.”  
“Right.”  
“ _Obviously_. He's the competition.”

John grins. He can't help himself. Sherlock gives him a sheepish smile in return and then they both turn their attention to their tea once again.

“So, what were you going to say that might mean I wouldn't respect you in the morning?”  
“I didn't say I'd sleep with you.”  
“No, but you did say that you were interested.”  
“I said no such thing.”  
“Alright, fine-”  
“I'm interested now of course.”  
“Why?” John doesn't bother to hide his confusion at Sherlock's rapid change in attitude.  
“Because you're currently displaying one particular quality that I always find highly attractive.”  
“Which is?”  
“Competent verbal reasoning. You didn't infer, you tested if I was doing so and, when I corrected that miss-assumption, you readjusted your analysis.”  
“Nothing more infuriating than trying to figure out what someone means when they won't tell you directly in the first place, but keep insisting that you try.”  
“No wonder you don't like talking to my brother.”  
“Your brother is infuriating at times, yes.” John laughs.  
“It’s probably genetic.”

Sherlock seems thoroughly amused at the statement. His good humour is infectious and John finds himself grinning broadly in response.

“Of course.” Sherlock begins again, at length. “Misdirection has always been Mycroft’s thing. He spent years based out of Hereford and all that time I’d thought he was working for the Diplomatic Service. Hereford! _Everybody_ knows what’s in Hereford. _Jack Dee_ did a sketch about Hereford. But I didn’t have the faintest idea that Mycroft was there.”  
“Because... you weren’t interested?”  
“Precisely. He made it seem so dull and unassuming that I just took it for granted that he was puttering around some dusty old embassy, making tea and filing papers, for the more important diplomats. He was off murdering people with their own toenails and I didn’t even suspect!”  
“The toenails part might be going a bit far.”  
“I’ll bet he could. They’re _trained_ to do things like that.”  
“But probably not-“  
“What would you know? You’re regular army. You just know how to shoot at things.” Sherlock snaps.  
John holds up both hands. “I stand corrected. After all, what would I know in comparison to someone _who thought his brother was a diplomat_ for, oh... half a decade at least?”  
A sly look. “In a manner of speaking...”  
John sniggers. “Alright, _fine_.”  
“I think we may need more tea.”  
“And doughnuts.”  
“Really? We have doughnuts?”  
“You’re so easily distracted.”

Settled on the couch, side by side this time, they spend some time busily eating. John just about manages to clear the plates away despite the distraction of Sherlock licking sugar from his fingers.

“My brother is an exceptional liar, and what’s more, he manages to lie by omission most of the time. Which is _of course_ what’s expected of him.” Sherlock continues as if there hasn’t been a pause in the conversation.  
“Alright.”  
“By mummy, that is. Lie indirectly and nobody can accuse you of anything other than poor judgement in the long run.”  
“What was it your mother did for a living again?”  
Sherlock’s smile is wolfish.  
“You’re going to tell me she was ‘head of the Circus’ aren’t you?”  
“You’ve read too many John le Carré novels.”  
“I read too many Ian Fleming novels and you’re avoiding the question.”  
“So I am. That’s not the point anyway. The point is that my brother lies, constantly. And, so does Lestrade.”  
“Because they both advertise false weaknesses? Wait a minute, you’re still ignoring the question.”  
“My mother is retired. And yes, that is _exactly_ my point.”  
“What is?” John is rapidly losing the thread of their conversation.  
“Facades. Both Mycroft and Lestrade are very good at not just acting, but _integrating_ their act into their day to day lives. My brother doesn’t give a damn about his weight but it’s such an obvious weakness, a socially expected one, that he gets away with it. Have you looked at Lestrade? He smiles when they roll their eyes, because he could have figured something out himself, instead of asking! And yet _he’s_ the detective inspector, not them. He’s the one that the Chief Superintendant mentions as ripe for promotion. The man isn’t a fool.”  
“Alright, fine. So they both make up false weaknesses. So what?”  
“So what... John, for goodness sake-“  
“This isn’t about them, is it?”

Sherlock gets up abruptly and starts to pace.

“When we first met you told me that most people don’t call you brilliant. That most people tell you to piss off.”  
“I was self-censoring. Usually it’s ‘fuck off’ instead.”

John puts his, now empty, mug down on the table and folds his hands together. If he has this right then Sherlock’s weakness is a very odd thing indeed.

“I don’t think that I’ve ever met anybody who was compulsively honest before.”  
“No? I suppose all the others were killed by their own stupidity.”

Sherlock comes to a stop by one of the windows. He clasps his hands behind his back and stares out into the street.

“It’s not a failing.”  
A wry smile. “You’re too kind. It’s a fatal one.”  
“I mean it. Most people couldn’t- _wouldn’t_.”  
“Most people have a better sense of self-preservation.”  
“If Mycroft’s-“  
“Mycroft has said nothing. He lies by omission, remember? No, my brother hasn’t breathed a word but he has been very careful to steer me clear of his cronies.”  
“Why?” John can’t help the annoyance in his tone. How dare Mycroft be ashamed of his own, brilliant, brother.  
“Oh, he’s not ashamed of me. I’m an asset to the state. I’m just... a rather delicate one that takes some careful handling.”  
“Because you refuse to lie.”  
“Because I refuse to play these games. Not, as I do at least try to pretend, because I am above them, but, simply because I’m fairly incapable of it.”  
“I’ve seen you... well, not lie but...”  
“For short periods of time only. I can maintain an illusion, play a character, but not for long and I certainly can’t pretend that that character is myself.”  
“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”  
“It’s a terrible thing, an aberration. Nobody can live like this. Society is not designed to function in this manner.”

There’s little John can say to that. Sherlock does have a point. There are acceptable roles and ideals and actions within any structured society, and pointing out the literal and accurate truth in most cases doesn’t fit within those ridged lines.

“I’m not expecting you to debate it. It is what it is, after all.”  
“Alright, fine but-”  
“Do we have anymore doughnuts?”  
“Yeah, they’re on the counter. Sherlock-“  
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

When Sherlock comes back to the couch, with yet more sugary food, he deposits himself at John’s side. Leaning back against John, kneels drawn up, plate on his knees, he proceeds to polish off two doughnuts in quick succession.

“Well, I think you’re perfect, just the way you are.” John mutters, grumpily.  
“Funnily enough, my brother is prone to saying exactly the same thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> The laughing application on Sherlock's Blackberry is a game called Word Mole, which indeed doesn't accept 'oi' as a word.
> 
> John is evidently buying Chinthe brand Burmese products, which have a distinctive yellow label. The brinjal pickle labels also have 'aubergine pickle' written underneath in brackets to explain the product to non-native speakers.
> 
> The restaurant on Edgeware Road is called Mandalay and is a family run business.


End file.
